Wedding Night by Sophie Kinsella

wake. I blink at my piece of paper, feeling hot about the face. I’m not going
to think about Richard. No. Absolutely not.

Richard would have thought Couples’ Quiz was ridiculous too, but, the
difference is, he’d have made an effort, because if it mattered to me it would
matter to him—

Stop it.
Like the time he did charades at my office party and everyone loved him
—
LISTEN UP, STUPID BRAIN. Richard is OUT of my life. Right now
he’s probably fast asleep on the other side of the world in some glossy San
Francisco apartment block, having forgotten all about me, and I’m with my
husband—repeat, husband—
“The Jeweled Path? Are you serious?”
I’ve been wrangling so hard with my thoughts, I didn’t notice Ben pick
up the crib sheet I prepared for him earlier. Now he’s staring at it
incredulously.
“What?”
“The Jeweled Path can’t be your favorite book.” He looks up from the
paper. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m not joking,” I say, nettled. “Have you read it? It’s brilliant.”
“I wasted thirty valuable seconds of my life downloading it and
skimming the first chapter.” He pulls a face. “I want those thirty seconds
back.”
“You obviously missed the point,” I say, offended. “It’s really insightful
if you read it carefully.”
“It’s a pile of new-age shit.”
“Not according to eighty million readers.” I’m glaring at him.
“Eighty million morons.”
“Well, what’s your favorite book, then?” I grab the piece of paper to see,
but my gaze is halted. I clap a hand over my mouth in shock and raise my
eyes to his. “That’s not how you vote?”
“Don’t you?”
“No!”
We’re staring at each other as though we’ve discovered we’re aliens. I
swallow twice, then look at the sheet again.
“OK! Right.” I’m trying not to give away how disconcerted I feel. “So …
so obviously we need to recap on a few basics. Voting preference we’ve

covered … favorite pasta?”
“Depends on the sauce,” he says promptly. “Stupid question.”
“Well, I like tagliatelle. You say tagliatelle too. Favorite TV show?”
“Dirk and Sally.”
“Dirk and Sally, definitely.” He grins, and the atmosphere lifts a shade.
“Favorite episode?” I can’t help asking.
“Let me think.” His face lights up. “The one with the lobsters. Classic.”
“No, the wedding,” I object. “It has to be the wedding. ‘With this Smith

and Wesson 59, I thee wed.’ ”
I watched that episode about ninety-five times. It was Dirk and Sally’s

second wedding (after they’d divorced and left the force and been recruited
back in season four), and it was the best TV wedding ever.

“No, the kidnap double bill.” Ben has sat up in his hammock and is
hugging his knees. “That was epic. Hey, listen. Listen.” His face brightens.
“We’ll do it as Dirk and Sally.”

“What?” I stare at him, puzzled. “Do what?”
“The quiz! I can’t remember any of this shit.” He waves my crib sheet at
me. “But I know what Sally likes and you know what Dirk likes. We’ll be
them, not us.”
He can’t be serious. Is he serious? A giggle rises out of me before I can
help myself.
“I mean, we can’t do any worse, can we?” Ben adds. “I know everything
about Sally. Test me.”
“OK, what shampoo does she use?” I challenge him.
Ben screws up his face to think. “I know this.… It’s Silvikrin. It’s in the
opening sequence. What’s Dirk’s favorite drink?”
“Bourbon straight up,” I say without missing a beat. “Easy. When’s
Sally’s birthday?”
“June twelfth, and Dirk always gets her white roses. When’s yours?” he
asks, looking alarmed. “It’s not soon, is it?”
He’s right. We know the marriage of a fictional TV detective couple
better than we know our own. It’s so ridiculous I can’t help grinning at him.
“OK, Dirk, it’s a deal.” I look up to see Nico approaching, flanked by
Georgios and Hermes. The Three Stooges, as Ben’s started calling them.
We’re in the most secluded, hidden spot in the garden, but even so, they
managed to track us down. They’ve been hovering round us endlessly all

afternoon, offering drinks, snacks, and even appearing with the most
unflattering Ikonos-branded sun hats in case we were getting overheated.

“Mr. and Mrs. Parr, I believe you are entered for the Couples’ Quiz? It’s
beginning in a few minutes, down on the beach,” Nico addresses us
pleasantly. He’s changed into a jacket with glittery braid, which makes me
wonder if he’s quizmaster.

“We were just coming.”
“Excellent! Georgios will assist you.”
We don’t need bloody assistance, I want to retort, but I bite my lip and
smile.
“Lead the way.”
“Bring it on, Sally,” mutters Ben in my ear, and I stifle a giggle. Maybe
this will be fun after all.

They’ve really gone to town. There’s a wooden platform set up on the
beach, decorated with a skirt of red foil strips. Clusters of red-heart helium
balloons are anchored at each side. A massive banner reads COUPLES’ QUIZ,
and a three-piece band is playing “Love Is All Around.” Melissa is pacing
about on the sand in her orange caftan, followed two steps behind by a
sandy-haired man in Vilebrequin trunks and an aqua polo shirt. I assume
he’s her husband, as they’re both wearing prominent badges reading
COUPLE ONE, along with their printed names.

“Stella McCartney,” she’s saying furiously as we approach. “You know
it’s Stella McCartney. Oh! Hi! You made it!”

“Ready to do battle?” says Ben, with a mischievous glint.
“It’s just a bit of fun!” she replies, almost aggressively. “Isn’t it, Matt?”
Matt is holding The Couples’ Quiz Official Question Book, I suddenly
notice in disbelief. Did they bring that with them?
“Oh, we happened to have that,” says Melissa, flushing as she sees me
register it. “Put it away, Matt. It’s too late now, anyway,” she adds to him in
a savage undertone. “I really think you could have made more effort.…
Hello! You must be the other competitors! Just a bit of fun!” She greets an
older-looking couple who are approaching hand in hand, looking a bit
perplexed by the whole thing. They have graying hair, coordinated beige
slacks, and short-sleeved Hawaiian cotton shirts, and the man has socks on
with sandals.

“Mr. and Mrs. Parr, your badge.” Nico descends and gives us our COUPLE
THREE badges. “Mr. and Mrs. Kenilworth, here are your name badges.”

“Are you on honeymoon?” I can’t help asking the woman, who it turns
out, is called Carol.

“Bless you, no!” She’s fiddling with her lapel. “We won this trip at our
bridge-club auction. Not our kind of thing, really, but you have to show
willing, and we do enjoy a quiz.…”

Nico ushers all six of us onto the platform, and we survey the audience,
which is a middle-size crowd of guests in sarongs and T-shirts, with
cocktails in their hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Nico has switched on his radio mike, and his
voice booms round the beach. “Welcome to the hotel’s very own Couples’
Quiz!”

Actually this is quite fun. It’s just like it is on the telly. All of us women
are led away to a nearby gazebo and given headphones which blast music
into our ears, while the men answer questions onstage. Then we swap
places and it’s our turn. As I write down my answers, I feel suddenly
nervous. Did Ben stick to the plan? Did he really answer as Dirk? What if
he chickened out?

Well, too late now. I scribble my final answer and hand in the paper.
“And now!” Nico says to an accompanying drumroll from the band. “Let
us reunite our couples! No conferring!” The audience applauds as the men
come back onto the stage. The men are on one side of Nico and the women
on the other, and I can see Melissa trying to attract Matt’s attention while he
resolutely ignores her.
“First question! What would your wife never go out without? Gentlemen,
please answer clearly into the microphone. Couple One?”
“Handbag,” says Matt promptly into the microphone.
“And your wife said …” Nico consults the paper. “Handbag. Ten points!
Couple Two, same question?”
“Fresh breath mints,” says Tim Kenilworth after some deliberation.
“And your wife said … Life Savers. Close enough.” Nico nods. “Ten
points! And Couple Three?”
“Easy,” says Ben laconically. “She never leaves without her Smith and
Wesson 59.”
“Is that a gun?” says Melissa, looking astonished. “A gun?”

“And your wife said …” Nico consults my writing. “My Smith and
Wesson 59. Congratulations, ten points!” He turns to me, his eyebrows
raised. “You don’t have it with you now, I hope?”

“I never go anywhere without it.” I twinkle back at him.
“A gun?” persists Melissa. “Are you serious? Matt, did you hear that?”
“Next question!” announces Nico. “You have no food in the larder.
Where do you head for a spontaneous meal out? Gentlemen, please answer
again. First, Couple One.”
“Er … fish and chips?” says Matt uncertainly.
“Fish and chips?” Melissa glares at him. “Fish and chips?”
“Well, it’s quick, easy.…” Matt quails at her expression. “Why, what did
you put?”
“I put Le Petit Bistro!” she says furiously. “We always go there when we
want a quick bite. You know we do!”
“I sometimes go for fish and chips,” mumbles Matt rebelliously, but I’m
not sure anyone hears him except me.
“Zero points,” says Nico sympathetically. “Couple Two?”
“The pub,” says Tim, after about half an hour’s thought. “I’d say we’d go
to the pub.”
“And your wife said …” Nico squints at the paper. “Madame, my
apologies, I cannot read your writing.”
“Well, I didn’t know what to put.” Carol looks perturbed. “We never do
run out of food. We’d always have a soup in the freezer, wouldn’t we,
love?”
“True enough.” Tim nods. “We make it up in batches, you see. Every
Sunday during Midsomer Murders. Ham and pea.”
“Or chickpea and chorizo,” Carol reminds him.
“Or plain old tomato.”
“And we freeze the rolls too,” explains Tim, “so it only takes a few
minutes in the microwave.”
“Whole grain and crusty white,” puts in Carol. “We do half and half,
usually.…” She trails off into silence.
Everyone seems slightly stunned by this domestic catalog, including
Nico, but at last he springs back to life.
“Thank you for your wonderfully thorough answer.” He beams at Carol
and Tim. “But, alas! Zero points. Couple Three?”
“We go to Dill’s Diner now,” I say. “Is that what he put?”

“Sorry,” begins Nico, “but that is not the answer—”
“Wait!” I interrupt, as a relieved smile spreads across Melissa’s face. “I
haven’t finished. We go to Dill’s Diner now, but we used to go to Jerry and
Jim’s Steakhouse, until it was blown up by the mob.” I glance over at Ben,
who gives an imperceptible nod.
“Ah,” says Nico, peering at the paper. “Yes. Your husband wrote, We
went to Jerry and Jim’s till Carlo Dellalucci’s lot blew it up; now we go to
Dill’s Diner.”
“Where’s that?” demands Melissa. “Where do you live?”
“Apartment Forty-three-D, West Eightieth Street,” we say in unison. It’s
part of the opening titles.
“Oh, New York,” she says, as though she’s saying, Oh, the rubbish dump.
“Blew up, as in exploded?” chimes in Matt, looking impressed. “Was
anyone killed?”
“Chief of police,” I say, with a terse nod. “And the ten-year-old daughter
he’d only just met, who died in his arms.”
It was the finale to season one. Absolutely major telly. I almost want to
recommend it to them all. Except that would slightly defeat the point.
“Question three!” Nico exclaims. “Now the competition heats up!”

By question eight we’ve covered season one, season two, and the Christmas
special. Melissa and Matt are ten points behind, and Melissa’s looking more
and more tetchy.

“This can’t be true,” she says, as Ben finishes describing our “most
memorable day together,” which involved an armed siege, a police chase
through the Central Park Zoo, and blowing out the candles on his birthday
cake in a jail cell (long story). “I dispute these answers.” She raps on the
microphone as though it’s a gavel and she’s a judge. “Nobody has a life like
this!”

“Dirk and Sally do!” I say, trying not to giggle as I meet Ben’s eye.
“Who’re Dirk and Sally?” she demands at once, looking from face to
face as though we’re tricking her in some new way.
“Our pet names for each other,” says Ben blandly. “And may I ask what
exactly you’re suggesting? That we learned an entire set of fake answers
especially for this competition? Do we look like tragic losers?”

“Come on!” Her eyes spark indignantly. “Are you telling me your first
date was really at a mortuary?”

“Are you telling me yours was really at the Ivy?” he counters at once.
“No one goes to the Ivy for a first date unless they already know they’ll be
so bored they’ll need to do some people-watching. Sorry,” he adds politely
to Matt. “I’m sure you had a great time.”

I can’t stop laughing. Melissa’s getting crosser and crosser, and I don’t
blame her. More and more people have joined the audience, and they’re
loving it too.

“Question nine!” Nico tries to get control of the situation. “Where is the
most unusual place you have had … amorous relations? Couple Two, would
you like to answer first?”

“Well!” Carol is growing pinker and pinker. “I wasn’t sure about this
question. Very personal.”

“Indeed,” says Nico sympathetically.
“I believe the correct word is …” She pauses, wriggling awkwardly.
“Fellatio.”
There’s an explosion of laughter from the audience, and I clamp my lips
together so that I don’t join in. Carol gave Tim a blow job? No way. I
cannot imagine that in a million years.
“Your husband put A cottage in Anglesey,” says Nico, grinning widely.
“Zero points, I am afraid, dear lady. Although full marks for trying.”
Carol looks as though she wants to spontaneously combust.
“By ‘place,’ ” she begins, “I thought you meant … I thought …”
“Indeed.” He nods sympathetically. “Couple One?”
“Hyde Park,” says Melissa promptly, as though she’s a child in class.
“Correct! Ten points! Couple Three?”
I had to think about this one. There are a few options. I just hope Ben
remembered the episode.
“The boardwalk at Coney Island.” As I look at Ben’s face, I know I got it
wrong.
“Alas! Your husband wrote, On the district attorney’s desk.”
“The district attorney’s desk?” Melissa looks livid. “Are you kidding
me?”
“Zero points!” Nico chimes in hurriedly. “And now we reach the climax
of our quiz. All rests on the final question. The most personal, intimate

question of all.” He pauses dramatically. “When did you first realize you
were in love with your wife?”

An expectant hush comes over the audience, and there’s a low drumroll
from the band.

“Couple Three?” says Nico.
“It was when we were tied together to a railroad track with a train
approaching,” says Ben reminiscently. “She reached over, kissed me, and
said, ‘If it ends here, I’ll be happy.’ And then she freed us both with her nail
file.”
“Correct!”
“A railroad track?” Melissa looks from face to face. “Can I appeal that?”
I beam at Ben and raise my fist in a victory salute. But he doesn’t
respond; his eyes are out of focus as though he’s still remembering.
“Couple Two?”
“Wait!” says Ben suddenly. “I haven’t finished my answer. That time on
the railroad track—that’s when I realized I was in love with my wife. But
the moment I realized I loved her …” He glances over at me with an
unreadable look. “That was quite another time.”
“What’s the difference?” says Melissa petulantly. “Are you trying to
wind us all up again?”
“You fall in and out of love,” says Ben. “But when you really love
someone … it’s forever.”
Is that a line from the show? I don’t recognize it. I’m feeling a bit
confused here. What’s he talking about?
“The day I realized I loved my wife was right here on the island of
Ikonos, fifteen years ago.” He leans toward the microphone and his voice
rises, now resonant. “I’d had the flu. She nursed me all night. She was my
guardian angel. I still remember that sweet voice telling me I’d be OK. Now
I realize I’ve loved her since that day, though I didn’t always know it.”
He finishes to silence. Everyone seems thunderstruck. Then a girl from
the audience whoops appreciatively, and it’s as though the spell is broken,
and applause breaks out, louder than ever.
I’m so gripped, I barely hear the others give their answers. He was
talking about us. Not Dirk and Sally: us. Ben and Lottie. A warm glow has
stolen over me, and I can’t stop smiling. He’s loved me for fifteen years.
He’s stood up and said it in public. Nothing so romantic has ever happened
to me, ever.

The only tiny, minuscule niggle is …
Well. Just a teeny point, which is that I still don’t remember it happening.
My mind is blank. I don’t remember Ben having the flu, nor do I remember
nursing him. But, then, there’s a lot about that time I don’t remember, I
reassure myself. I’d forgotten all about Big Bill. I’d forgotten about the
poker tournament. It’s probably buried somewhere deep inside me.
“… you know it was on that picnic! You’ve always said so!”
Abruptly, I become aware that Melissa and Matt are still squabbling
about his answer.
“It wasn’t on the picnic,” says Matt obstinately. “It was in the Cotswolds.
But the way you’re carrying on, maybe I wish I hadn’t!”
Melissa takes a sharp breath, and I can practically see smoke puff from
her ears.
“I think I know when we fell in love, Matt! And it wasn’t in the bloody
Cotswolds!”
“Which brings us to the end of our contest!” Nico puts in deftly. “And I
am delighted to say that our winners are Couple Three! Ben and Lottie Parr!
You win a special open-air couple’s massage and will be awarded the
Happy Couple of the Week trophy at our gala prize ceremony tomorrow
evening. Congratulations!” He leads an uproarious round of applause, and
Ben winks at me. We take a bow, and I feel Ben squeeze my hand tightly.
“I like the sound of this couple’s massage,” he says into my ear. “I read
about it earlier. They do it on the beach in a special curtained arbor with
essential oils. You get glasses of champagne, and after they’ve finished,
they leave you alone for some ‘private time.’ ”
Private time? I meet his eyes. At last! Ben and I alone on a beach in our
own private space, with the waves crashing on the shore and glasses of
champagne and our bodies slick with oil …
“Let’s do it as soon as we can.” My voice is thick with longing.
“Tonight.” His hand lightly brushes against my breast, making me shiver
with anticipation. I guess we’ve abandoned the no-touching rule. We bow
again to the audience and then head down off the platform. “And now let’s
go for a drink,” adds Ben. “I want to ply you with alcohol.”

Turns out there are advantages to having a butler. The minute we say that
we want a celebratory drink, Georgios swings into action, securing us a

corner table at the posh beach restaurant, complete with champagne on ice
and special lobster canapés brought down from the main restaurant. For
once I don’t mind the fuss and bother as the butlers dance around us. It feels
right. We should be fussed over. We’re the champions!

“So!” says Ben when at last we’re left alone. “Good day, as it turns out.”
“Very good.” I grin back.
“Two hours till our massage.” He meets my eyes, and his mouth twitches
with a smile.
Two delicious hours of savoring the spectacular beach sexathon which is
to come. I can cope with that. I sip my champagne and lean back, feeling
the sun on my face. Life is just about perfect right now. There’s only the
tiniest strain in my thoughts, which I’m trying to ignore. I can ignore it.
Yes. I can.
No. I can’t.
As I sip my champagne and crunch salted almonds, I’m aware of a glitch
in my mood. A weak point I keep trying to skate over. But I can’t fool
myself. And I know it’s only going to worry me more, the longer I leave it.
I don’t know him. Not properly. He’s my husband and I don’t know him.
I mean, it’s fine that he votes differently from me—but the point is, I had
no idea. I thought we’d covered so much ground over the last few days—
but now I realize there are some gaping holes. What other surprises am I
going to come across?
In recruitment, we ask the same basic question whenever we want to get
to know our candidates quickly: “Where do you want to be in one year, five
years, and ten years?” I’d have no idea what to put for Ben, and that can’t
be right, surely?
“You’re very distant.” Ben touches my nose. “Earth to Lottie.”
“Where do you want to be in five years’ time?” I ask abruptly.
“Excellent question,” he says promptly. “Where do you want to be?”
“Don’t deflect.” I smile at him. “I want to know the Ben Parr official
game plan.”
“Maybe I had an official game plan.” His eyes soften as they meet mine.
“But maybe it’s changed now I’ve got you.”
I’m so disarmed by his expression that I feel my doubts melting away.
He’s gazing at me with the most charming lopsided smile and a distant look
to his eyes, as though he’s imagining our future together.

“I feel the same,” I can’t help blurting out. “I feel as though I’ve got a
whole new future.”

“A future with you. Anywhere we like.” He spreads his hands. “What’s
the dream, Lottie? Sell it to me.”

“France?” I say tentatively. “A farmhouse in France?” I’ve always
fantasized about moving to France. “Maybe the Dordogne, or Provence?
We could do up a house, find a real project.…”

“I love that idea.” Ben’s eyes are sparkling. “Find a wreck, turn it into
something amazing, have friends to stay, long lazy meals—”

“Exactly!” My words tumble out, mingling with his. “We’d have a great
big table and wonderful fresh food, and the children would help make the
salad.…”

“They’d learn French too—”
“How many children do you want?”
My question halts the conversation for a moment. I’m holding my breath,
I realize.
“As many as we can,” says Ben easily. “If they all look like you, I’ll have
ten!”
“Maybe not ten.” I’m laughing in relief. We chime perfectly! My worries
were unfounded! We’re totally on the same page when it comes to life
choices. I almost want to get out my phone and start finding old French
properties to drool over. “You really want to move to France?”
“If there’s one thing I want to do in the next two years, it’s settle myself
down,” he says seriously. “Find a lifestyle I can love. And France is a
passion of mine.”
“Do you speak French?”
He reaches for the paper dessert menu, produces a pencil, and scribbles a
few lines on the back, then turns it to show me.

L’amour, c’est toi

La beaute, c’est toi

L’honneur, c’est toi

Lottie, c’est toi

I’m enchanted. No one’s ever written me a poem before. And certainly
not in French.

“Thank you so much! I love it!” I read it through again, bring the paper
right up to my face as though trying to inhale the words, then put it down.

“But what about your work?” I’m so desperate for this plan to come true
now, I can’t help pressing him, just to make sure. “You couldn’t leave that.”

“I can dip in and out.”
I don’t even know quite what Ben’s work consists of. I mean, it’s a
company which makes paper, obviously, but what does he do? I’m not sure
he ever explained it properly, and it feels a bit late to ask.
“Have you got someone who could take the reins? What about Lorcan?”
I remember Ben’s best friend. “He works with you, doesn’t he? Could he
step in?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’d love to.” There’s a sudden bitter twist to Ben’s voice,
and I take a mental step back.
Yikes. I’ve obviously touched a nerve. Not that I know the details, but
Ben’s manner instantly evokes a background of tense meetings in
boardrooms and slammed doors and emails regretted the following day.
“He’s your best man,” I say cautiously. “Aren’t you best friends?”
Ben is silent for a few moments, preoccupied with some thought or other.
“I don’t even know why Lorcan’s in my life,” he says at last. “That’s the
truth. I turned round and there he was. Just there.”
“What do you mean?”
“His marriage broke up four years ago. He went up to Staffordshire to
stay with my dad. Fair enough; they’d always been friendly, since we were
at school together. But next thing, Lorcan’s advising my dad and getting a
job in the company and running the whole bloody show. You should have
seen him and my dad, striding around the place together, making plans,
leaving me out completely.”
“That sounds awful,” I say sympathetically.
“It all came to a head two years ago.” He gulps his champagne. “I just
upped and left. Went AWOL. I needed to sort myself out. It freaked them so
much they contacted the police.” He spreads his hands. “I never told them
where I was. After that, they behaved as though I was some sort of fragile
nutcase. My dad and Lorcan were thicker than ever. Then my dad goes and
dies.…”
There’s a rawness to his voice which makes my skin prickle.
“And Lorcan stayed at the company?” I venture.
“Where else would he go? He’s got a cushy number. Nice salary, cottage
on the estate—he’s sorted.”
“Does he have kids?”

“No.” Ben shrugs. “I suppose they never got round to it. Or weren’t into
them.”

“Well, then, why don’t you quietly get rid of him?” I’m about to suggest
a legal firm I know which specializes in tactfully exiting staff, but Ben
doesn’t seem to be listening.

“Lorcan thinks he knows best about everything!” The words come
shooting out in a resentful stream. “What I should do with my life. What I
should do with my company. What advertising agency I should employ.
What I should pay my cleaners. What grade of paper is best for which … I
don’t know, desk diary.” He exhales. “And I don’t know the answer. So he
wins.”

“It’s not a question of winning,” I say, but I can tell Ben isn’t paying
attention.

“He once confiscated my phone in public, because he thought it ‘wasn’t
appropriate.’ ” Ben is burning with resentment.

“That sounds like harassment!” I say, shocked. “Do you have an effective
HR head?”

“Yes.” Ben sounds sulky. “But she’s leaving. She’d never say anything to
Lorcan, anyway. They all love him.”

Listening with my professional hat on, I’m aghast. This all sounds like a
shambles. I want to get a piece of paper and start a five-point action plan for
Ben to manage Lorcan more effectively, but that’s not exactly sexy
honeymoon talk.

“Tell me,” I say instead, my voice gentle and coaxing. “Where did you go
when you went AWOL?”

“You really want to know?” Ben gives me a curious, wry smile. “Not my
finest moment.”

“Tell me.”
“I went to have lessons in comedy from Malcolm Robinson.”
“Malcolm Robinson?” I stare at him. “For real?”
I love Malcolm Robinson. He’s hilarious. He used to have this brilliant
sketch show, and once I saw him live at Edinburgh.
“I bought them anonymously at a charity auction. It was originally a
weekend, but I persuaded him to extend it to a week. Cost me a fortune. At
the end of the week, I asked him to tell me, straight up, if I had any talent.”
There’s silence. I’m already cringing inside at his expression.
“What—” I say at last, and clear my throat. “What did he—”

“He said no.” Ben cuts me off, almost tonelessly. “He was blunt. Told me
to give it up. Did me a favor, really. I haven’t cracked a joke since.”

I wince. “That must have been devastating.”
“It hurt my pride, yes.”
“How long had you been …?” I trail off awkwardly. I don’t know quite
how to phrase it. Luckily, Ben gets the gist.
“Seven years.”
“And you just gave up?”
“Yup.”
“And you didn’t tell anybody? Your dad? Lorcan?”
“I thought they might notice I’d stopped doing gigs and ask why. They
didn’t.” The hurt in his voice is unmistakable. “I didn’t have anyone else to
… you know. Tell stuff.”
Spontaneously, I reach for his hand and squeeze it tight. “You’ve got me
now,” I say softly. “Tell me stuff.”
He squeezes my hand back and our eyes are locked. For a moment I feel
totally connected to him. Then two waiters come to clear our canapé plates;
we release hands and the spell is broken.
“Strange honeymoon, huh?” I say wryly.
“I don’t know. I’m starting to enjoy it.”
“Me too.” I can’t help laughing. “I’m almost glad it’s been so weird. At
least we won’t forget it.”
And I mean it. If we hadn’t had all the bedroom disasters, maybe we
wouldn’t have had this drink and I might never have found out these things
about Ben. It’s funny how things work out. I entwine my leg around Ben’s
under the table and start working my toe up his thigh in my signature
maneuver, but he shakes his head vigorously.
“No,” he says shortly. “Uh-uh. Can’t stand it. Too horny.”
“How on earth will you survive the couple’s massage, then?” I tease him.
“By telling them to keep it to ten minutes flat and then leave us alone in
utter privacy,” he replies seriously. “I’m prepared to tip heavily.”
“An hour to go.” I glance at my watch. “I wonder what kind of oil they
use?”
“Change the subject from oil.” He looks strained. “Give a man a break.”
I can’t help laughing. “OK, here’s a new subject. When shall we go and
visit the guest house? Tomorrow?”

I’m half excited, half terrified about visiting the guest house. It’s where
we met. It’s where the fire happened. It’s where my life changed. It’s where
everything happened. All at one little guest house, fifteen years ago.

“Tomorrow.” Ben nods. “You have to do cartwheels along the beach for
me.”

“I will.” I smile at him. “And you have to dive off that rock.”
“And then we’ll find that cave we used to go in …”
We’re both hazy-eyed and smiling, lost in memories.
“You used to wear those tiny tie-dyed shorts,” says Ben. “They drove me
wild.”
“I brought them with me,” I confess.
“You didn’t!” His eyes light up.
“I’ve kept them, all this time.”
“You angel.”
I grin wickedly back at him, feeling my desire rocket. Oh God. How am I
going to wait an hour? How can I fill the time?
“I’m going to let Fliss know how we got on.” I reach for my phone and
type a quick text:

Guess what? WE WON!!!! All going brilliantly. Ben and I make a fab team. Totally happy.

I can’t help smiling as I type. She won’t believe her eyes! In fact, I hope
the news cheers her up a bit. She sounded hassled before. I wonder what’s
going on. On impulse, I add to my text:

Hope u r having a lovely day too. Everything OK?? L xxx

16

FLISS

There’s nothing wrong with Sofia, Bulgaria. It’s a great city. I’ve been here
many times before. It boasts beautiful churches and interesting museums
and an outdoor book market. However, it is not where I want to be standing
at six in the evening, hot, sweaty, and harassed, waiting for my baggage at
the carousel, when I should be on the Greek island of Ikonos.

The only plus point of the situation: I can’t blame Daniel. Not this time.
This one is firmly fate/act of God. (Thanks a lot, God. Is this because of
what I said in religious studies class, age eleven? I was joking.) Although
I’d actually like to blame Daniel right now. More specifically, I’d like to
kick him. Failing that, I may well kick my baggage trolley.

The crowd around the carousel is five deep. There are people waiting for
luggage from several flights, and no one is in a good mood, least of all my
fellow passengers from Flight 637 to Ikonos. Not many smiles. Not a lot of
jolly banter.

Sofia, bloody Bulgaria. I mean.
Years of traveling for work have made me fairly Zen about airlines and
delays and cock-ups, but I must say, this cock-up is of epic proportions. We
couldn’t just land, wave the poor old lady off to hospital, and then
efficiently resume our journey. Oh no. Her luggage needed to be found, and
then there was a problem getting a takeoff slot, and then it turned out
something had gone wrong with an engine. The upshot is an unscheduled
overnight stay in Sofia. We’re being put up at the City Heights Hotel. (Not
bad, four stars, great rooftop bar, as I remember.)
“That’s ours!” yells Noah for the fifty-first time. He’s tried to claim
nearly every black suitcase that has appeared on the carousel, despite the
fact that ours has a distinctive red strap and is probably on its way to
Belgrade right now.
“It’s not, Noah,” I say patiently. “Keep looking.” A woman steps heavily
on my toe, and I’m trying to remember any curse words I know in
Bulgarian when my phone beeps with a text and I pull it out of my pocket.

Guess what? WE WON!!!! All going brilliantly. Ben and I make a fab team. Totally happy.

Hope u r having a lovely day too. Everything OK?? L xxx

I’m so shocked I can’t move for a moment. They won? How the hell did
they win?

“Who’s that from?” Richard has seen me reading my phone. “Is that from
Lottie?”

“Er, yes.” I’m too slow off the mark to lie.
“What does she say? Has she realized she’s made a mistake?” His face is
so eager that I cringe inside. “Presumably they did terribly at the quiz?”
“Actually …” I hesitate. How do I break this to him? “Actually, they
won.”
His face drops and he stares at me, aghast. “They won?”
“Apparently.”
“But I thought they didn’t know anything about each other.”
“They don’t!”
“You said they would tank.” Richard becomes accusing.
“I know!” I say, feeling rattled. “Look, I’m sure there’s some
explanation. I must have got my wires crossed. I’ll give her a ring.” I speed-
dial Lottie’s number and turn away.
“Fliss?” Even from that one syllable I can hear how ebullient she is.
“Congratulations!” I try to match her tone. “You … you won?”
“Isn’t it amazing?” she says exultantly. “You should have been there,
Fliss. We did it in character! We were Dirk and Sally, you know, from that
TV show we always used to watch?”
“Right,” I say in confusion. “Wow.”
“Now we’re celebrating and I’ve just had the most delicious lobster
canapés and champagne. And we’re going back to the guest house
tomorrow. And Ben wrote me a love poem in French.” She sighs blissfully.
“This is the perfect honeymoon.”
I stare at the phone in mounting horror. Champagne? French love poetry?
The perfect honeymoon?
“Right.” I’m trying to stay calm. “That’s … really surprising.”
What the fuck has Nico been doing? Has he gone to sleep?
“Yes, we were having a terrible time!” Lottie laughs happily. “You
wouldn’t believe it. We haven’t even … you know. Done it yet. But

somehow that doesn’t matter.” Her tone softens lovingly. “It’s as if all the
crazy disasters have brought Ben and me closer together.”

The disasters have brought them closer together? I’ve brought them
closer together?

“Wonderful!” My voice is shrill. “That’s great! So you made the right
decision to marry Ben?”

“A million times over,” says Lottie ecstatically.
“Great! Marvelous!” I screw up my face, debating how best to proceed.
“Only … I was just thinking about Richard. Wondering how he was doing.
Are you in touch with him?”
“Richard?” Her vitriolic tone nearly takes my ear off. “Why would I be
in touch with Richard? He’s well out of my life, and I wish I’d never ever
met him!”
“Ah.” I rub my nose, trying not to look at Richard. I hope he can’t hear.
“Can you believe I was prepared to fly across the Atlantic for him? He
would never have made such an effort for me. Never.” Her bitterness makes
me flinch. “He hasn’t got a single romantic bone in his body!”
“I’m sure he has!” I retort before I can stop myself.
“He hasn’t,” she says resolutely. “You know what I think? He never
loved me at all. He’s probably forgotten all about me already.”
I look at Richard—hot, sweaty, and resolute—and I want to scream. If
only she knew.
“Anyway, Fliss, I think it’s really tasteless of you to mention Richard,”
she adds crossly.
“Sorry,” I backtrack hastily. “Just thinking aloud. I’m glad you’re having
a good time.”
“I’m having a fantastic time,” she says emphatically. “We’ve been talking
and bonding and making plans—oh, by the way. That guy you hooked up
with. Lorcan.”
“Yes? What about him?”
“He sounds a nightmare. You should avoid him. You haven’t seen him
again, have you?”
Instinctively, I glance over at Lorcan, who is up near the carousel and has
hoisted Noah onto his shoulders.
“Er … not a lot,” I prevaricate. “Why?”
“He’s the most dreadful, arrogant man. You know he works for Ben’s
company? Well, he basically talked Ben’s dad into giving him a job there,

and now he has a cushy number and he’s taking over everything and trying
to control Ben.”

“Oh,” I say, nonplussed. “I had no idea. I thought they were mates.”
“Well, I thought so too. But Ben really hates him. Apparently he once
confiscated Ben’s phone in public!” Her voice rises indignantly. “Like some
kind of schoolteacher. Isn’t that atrocious? I told Ben he should charge him
with harassment! And there’s loads of other stuff too. So promise me you
won’t go and fall for him or anything.”
I resist the desire to give a hollow, sardonic laugh. Some chance.
“I’ll do my best,” I say. “And you promise me you’ll … er … carry on
having a wonderful time.” It’s killing me to say the words. “What’s up
next?”
“Couple’s massage on the beach,” she says happily.
Every fiber in my body stiffens in alarm.
“Right.” I swallow. “So, when’s that? Exactly?”
I’m already planning the ear-bashing I’m going to give Nico. What’s
going on? How can he have been so negligent? Why are they drinking
champagne and eating lobster? Why did he allow Ben to write a French
love poem? He should have leapt in and grabbed the pencil.
“It’s in half an hour,” says Lottie. “They rub you with oil and then leave
you alone for some private time. Honestly, Fliss.” She lowers her voice.
“Ben and I are just gagging for it.”
I’m hopping with agitation. This was not the plan. I’m stuck in bloody
Sofia and she and Ben are about to conceive a baby on the beach, whom no
doubt they’ll christen “Beach” and then viciously fight over in the high
court when it all falls apart. As soon as I’ve said goodbye, I speed-dial
Nico.
“Well?” Richard instantly questions me. “What’s the situation?”
“The situation is: I’m on top of the situation,” I say curtly as I’m put
through to voicemail. “Hello, Nico, it’s Fliss. We need to talk, asap. Give
me a call. Bye.”
“So what did Lottie say?” demands Richard as I end the call. “Did they
win?”
“Apparently so.”
“Bastard.” He’s breathing heavily. “Bastard. What does he know about
her that I don’t? What’s he got that I haven’t? Apart from, obviously, the
stately home—”

“Richard, stop!” I snap in exasperation. “It’s not a competition!”
Richard stares at me as though I’m the thickest moron that ever existed.
“Of course it’s a competition,” he says.
“No, it isn’t!”
“Fliss, everything in a man’s life is a competition!” He suddenly loses it.
“Don’t you realize that? From the moment you’re a three-year-old boy,
peeing up against the wall with your friends, all you really care about is:
Am I bigger than him? Am I taller? Am I more successful? Is my wife
hotter? So, the day that some smooth bastard with a private jet runs off with
the girl you love: yes, it’s a competition.”
“You don’t know he’s got a private jet,” I say after a pause.
“I’m guessing.”
There’s silence. In spite of myself, I’m rating Richard against Ben in my
mind. Well, Richard would win in my book—but, then, I’ve never met Ben.
“Well, OK. Suppose you’re right,” I say at last. “What counts as
winning? Where’s the finish line? She’s married to someone else. So
doesn’t that mean you’ve already lost?”
I don’t mean to be harsh—but these are the facts.
“When I’ve told Lottie how I really feel … and she’s still said no,” says
Richard resolutely, “then I’ll have lost.”
My stomach twinges with sympathy for him. He’s putting himself on the
line here. No one can say he’s taking the easy way out.
“OK.” I nod. “Well, you know which way I would vote.” I squeeze his
shoulder.
“What are they doing now?” He glances at my phone. “Tell me what
they’re doing. I know she’ll have told you.”
“They’ve just had champagne and lobster,” I say reluctantly. “And Ben’s
written her a love poem in French.”
“In French?” Richard looks as though someone has kneed him in the
stomach. “Smarmy bastard.”
“And they’re planning to go to the guest house tomorrow,” I tell him, as
Lorcan joins us. He and Noah are wheeling three cases between them.
“Well done, you two! That’s all the luggage.”
“High five,” says Noah solemnly to Lorcan, and smacks his proffered
palm.
“The guest house?” Richard looks stricken by this piece of news. “The
guest house where they met?”

“Exactly.”
His scowl deepens. “She always goes on about that place. The calamari
that was unlike any calamari in the world. And the secluded beach that was
better than any other beach. I took her to Kos once, and all she could say
was it wasn’t as good as the guest house.”
“Oh, jeez, the guest house.” Lorcan nods in agreement. “I hate that place.
If I have to hear Ben tell me one more time about how the sunset was like a
mind-altering experience …”
“Lottie went on about the sunset too.” Richard nods.
“And how they all used to get up at dawn and do fucking yoga—”
“—and the people—”
“—the atmosphere—”
“And the sea was the clearest, most turquoise, most perfect sea in
existence,” I chime in, rolling my eyes. “I mean, get over it.”
“Bloody place,” says Lorcan.
“I wish it had burned down,” adds Richard.
We all look at each other, immensely cheered. There’s nothing like
having a common enemy.
“So, we should go,” says Lorcan. He proffers the handle of my wheelie
case and I’m about to take it when my phone rings. I check the ID: it’s
Nico. At last.
“Nico! Where have you been!”
“Fliss! I know what you are thinking, and I am mortified—” As he
launches into some long, rambling apology, I cut him off.
“We haven’t got time for all that. They’re about to get it together on the
beach. You need to move fast. Listen.”

17

LOTTIE

This is the perfect setting for a wedding night. I mean, our own private
beach! How cool is that?

We’re in a secluded little cove that you reach from the main beach over
stepping stones and there’s a DO NOT DISTURB sign placed on a rock. Our
two massage therapists led us here in a little procession, followed by
Georgios and Hermes carrying champagne and oysters, which are waiting
for us on ice. Now we’re lying on a huge double massage bed, while the
two massage therapists, Angelina and Carissa, rub oil into our bodies.
Billowing all around us are white curtains, so we’re totally private in our
enclosure. The sky is that intense blue you only get at a certain point in the
early evening, and scented candles planted in the sand are giving off a sweet
aroma. Birds are swooping and calling. I can hear the tiny splash of waves
on the sand, and the air has a salty tang. It’s all so scenic, I feel as though
I’m in some arty pop video.

Ben reaches out his hand to take mine, and I squeeze it back, wincing as
Carissa tackles a particularly stubborn knot in my neck. Mmm. Ben and me
and a canopied bed on the beach, which we’ll have to ourselves for two
hours afterward. The therapists have stressed that several times. “Two
hours,” Angelina kept saying. “Plenty of private time. You will be relaxed
as a couple.… All the senses will be stimulated.… No one will disturb you,
this is guaranteed.…”

She didn’t quite wink, but she might as well have. Obviously this is the
open-air shagging service, which they’re too coy to spell out in the
brochure.

Carissa has finished with my neck. She and Angelina move to the head
end of the bed and in synchronization begin a head massage. I’m relaxing
more and more—in fact, I’d probably fall asleep if it weren’t that I’m also
absolutely hopping with lust. Just the sight of Ben slick with oil and naked
beside me was enough. We are going to use every minute of that two hours,

I vow. We have earned this sex. He’ll only have to touch me and I’ll
explode—

Ting!
I’m jolted out of my reverie. From nowhere, Angelina and Carissa have
produced matching little bells, which they’ve struck above our heads in a
kind of ritual.
“Finish,” whispers Carissa, and tucks my sheet around me. “Now relax.
Take it easy.”
Yes! It’s over! Sexy private time, here we come. I watch through semi-
closed eyes as Angelina and Carissa withdraw from our curtained
enclosure. There’s no sound at all except for the cotton curtains, flapping
gently in the breeze. I stare up at the blue, unable to speak, I’m so overcome
by torpor and lust. I think this is the most blissful state I’ve ever been in.
Post-massage; pre-sex.
“So.” Ben’s hand squeezes mine again. “At last.”
“At last.” I’m about to lean over and kiss him, but he’s too fast. Before I
know it, he’s straddling me, holding a small bottle of oil. He must have
brought it along secretly. He thinks of everything!
“I don’t like anyone massaging you but me.” He pours oil onto my
shoulders. It smells musky and sensual and gorgeous. I inhale pleasurably
as he covers me all over with it, using firm, sweeping gestures which make
me shiver.
“You know, you’re very talented, Mr. Parr,” I say, my voice jerky with
lust. “You could set up a spa.”
“I want only one client.” He starts to rub the oil into my nipples, over my
stomach, lower down.… At once I’m whimpering with desire. I have so, so
wanted him.…
“You like this?” His eyes are intent.
“I’m tingling all over. It’s unbearable.”
“So am I.” He leans in to kiss me, his hands moving down with purpose,
between my thighs.…
“Oh God.” I’m breathless. “I really am tingling.”
“Me too.”
“Ow!” I can’t help wincing.
“I know you like it a bit rough.” He chuckles, but I’m not sure I can join
in. I’m tingling too much. Something’s wrong.

“Can we stop a moment?” I push him away. My skin feels like it’s
crawling with insects. “I’m a little sore.”

“Sore?” His eyes glint with amusement. “Babe, we haven’t even started.”
“It’s not funny! It’s painful!” I stare agitatedly at my arm. It’s turned red.
Why is it red? Ben moves in on me again, and I try my hardest to moan
with appreciation as his lips nuzzle their way down my neck. But,
truthfully, they’re moans of pain.
“Stop!” I say at last, in desperation. “Time out! I feel like I’m on fire!”
“So do I,” pants Ben.
“Really! I can’t do this! Look at me!”
At last Ben moves back and surveys me, his eyes cloudy with desire.
“You look great,” he says briefly. “You look awesome.”
“No, I don’t! I’m all red.” I survey my arms with mounting alarm. “And
I’m swelling up! Look!”
“These are swelling up, all right.” Ben cups one of my breasts
appreciatively. Isn’t he listening?
“Ow!” I wrench his arm away. “This is serious. I think I’ve had an
allergic reaction. What’s in that oil? Not peanut oil? You know I’m allergic
to peanuts.”
“It’s just oil.” Ben seems evasive. “I don’t know what’s in it.”
“You must! You must have looked at the label when you bought it.”
There’s a short silence. Ben looks a bit sulky, as though I’ve caught him
out.
“I didn’t buy it,” he says at last. “Nico gave it to me, compliments of the
hotel. It’s their signature blend or something.”
“Oh.” I can’t help feeling disappointed. “And you didn’t check? Even
though you know I’m allergic?”
“I’d forgotten, OK?” Ben sounds thrown. “I can’t remember every tiny
little thing!”
“I hardly think your wife’s allergy is ‘every tiny little thing’!” I say
furiously, feeling an uncharacteristic urge to hit him. It was all going so
brilliantly. Why did he have to slather me with evil peanut oil?
“Look, maybe if we get the right angle it won’t hurt you so much.” Ben
looks around desperately and pushes aside the curtains. “Try standing on
those rocks.”
“OK.” I’m as eager as he is to make this work. If we minimize actual
contact … I clamber onto the rocks, trying not to flinch too much. “Ow—”

“Not like that—”
“Ouch! Stop!”
“Try the other way.…”
“If you could rotate a bit … Oof!”
“Was that your nostril?”
“This isn’t working,” I say, after slipping off the rocks for the third time.
“I could try kneeling on the rocks if we had some padding.…”
“Or on the edge of the bed …”
“I’ll go on top.… No! Ow! Sorry,” I wince, “but that’s really painful.”
“Can you put your leg behind your head?”
“No, I can’t,” I say resentfully. “Can you?”
The atmosphere has totally disintegrated, as we try one acrobatic position
after another. I keep gasping, and not in a good way. By now my skin is
seriously inflamed. I need some soothing aqueous cream, urgently. But I
also need to have sex. It’s unbearable. I want to weep with frustration.
“Come on!” I say to myself crossly. “I’ve had root-canal surgery. I can do
this.”
“Root-canal surgery?” Ben sounds mortally offended. “Sex with me is
like root-canal surgery?”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“You’ve been avoiding sex with me all holiday,” he snarls, suddenly
losing his temper. “I mean, what kind of a bloody honeymoon is this?”
This is such an unfair accusation that I recoil with shock.
“I haven’t avoided sex!” I cry. “I want it as much as you do, but I … It’s
so painful.…” I cast around desperately. “Could we try tantric sex?”
“Tantric sex?” Ben sounds contemptuous.
“Well, it works for Sting.” I feel near tears of disappointment.
“Is your mouth sore?” says Ben, a note of hope in his voice.
“Yes, I got oil on my lips. They’re really smarting.” I catch his drift.
“Sorry.”
Ben unhooks his leg from mine and slumps onto the bed, his shoulders
hunched. Despite everything, I can’t help feeling relieved that he’s not
chafing against me anymore. It was sheer torture.
For a while we just sit there in stony misery. My flesh is still swollen and
vivid red. I must look like an overgrown glacé cherry. A tear rolls down my
cheek, then another.

He hasn’t even asked me if my allergy is dangerous. I mean, not that it is,
but still. He isn’t exactly concerned, is he? The first time Richard saw me
react to peanuts, he wanted to drive me to the ER right then. And he’s
always scrupulous about checking menus and the boxes of ready meals.
He’s really thoughtful—

“Lottie.” Ben’s voice makes me jump a mile with guilt. How can I be
thinking about my ex-boyfriend when I’m on my honeymoon?

“Yes?” I turn quickly, in case he guessed my thoughts. “Just thinking
about … nothing in particular …”

“I’m sorry.” Ben spreads his hands in a frank gesture. “I didn’t mean it,
but I’m so desperate for you.”

“Me too.”
“It’s just bad luck.”
“We seem to be having more than our fair share of bad luck,” I say
ruefully. “How can one couple have such a catalog of disasters?”
“Less ‘honeymoon,’ ” he quips, “more ‘horrormoon.’ ”
I smile at his feeble joke, feeling mollified. At least he’s making an
effort.
“Maybe it’s fate,” I say, not really meaning it, but Ben seizes on this idea.
“Maybe you’re right. Think about it, Lottie. We’re going back to the
guest house tomorrow. We’re returning to the place we first got it together.
Maybe that’s where we’re meant to consummate our marriage.”
“It would be pretty romantic.” This idea is growing on me. “We could
find the same spot in that little cave.”
“You still remember?”
“I’ll always remember that night,” I say in heartfelt tones. “It’s one of my
all-time great memories.”
“Well, maybe we can top it,” says Ben, his good humor restored. “How
long will you be out of action?”
“Dunno.” I glance down at my lobster skin. “It’s a pretty bad reaction.
Probably till tomorrow.”
“OK. So we press pause. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I say gratefully. “We are hereby pressing pause.”
“And tomorrow will be play.”
“And then rewind and play again.” I grin wickedly at him. “And again.
And again.”

I can tell, we’re both cheered by this plan. We sit gazing out to sea, and I
feel myself gradually soothed by the repetitive noise of the surf, punctuated
by the cry of birds and, far away, the throb of music coming from the main
beach. A band is playing there tonight. Maybe we’ll wander over in a while,
drink a cocktail, and have a listen.

It feels as if we’ve made our peace. As we’re sitting there, Ben carefully
extends his arm behind me, then bends it round as though to cradle my
back, without actually touching. It’s like a ghost embrace. My skin prickles
mildly in response, but I don’t mind. All my resentment has faded away; in
fact, I can’t think why it was there at all.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “No peanut oil. No butlers. No harps. Just us.”
“Just us.” I nod. Maybe Ben’s right: maybe we were supposed to do it at
the guest house all along. “I love you,” I add impulsively. “Even more
because of this.”
“I feel the same way.” He gives me that lopsided smile and my heart
swells. And suddenly I feel almost euphoric, despite my stinging skin and
frustrated libido and a cricked ankle from climbing on the rocks. Because,
after all, here we are, back on Ikonos, after all these years. And tomorrow
we come full circle. Tomorrow we return to the most important place of our
lives: the guest house. The place where we found love and experienced
seismic events and changed our destinies forever.
Ben holds out his hand as though to take mine, and I curl my fingers
underneath without quite touching (my hands are swollen too). I don’t need
to tell him how important this visit to the guest house is to me. He
understands. He gets it like no one else does. And that’s why we’re meant
to be together.

18

FLISS

No. Nooo! What is this drivel?

Ben understands me at a profound level. He thinks it’s Destiny and I do too. We’ve made so
many plans for our future. He wants to do all the same things that I do. We’ll probably end up
living in France in a gîte.…

I click briskly through the next three texts with mounting dismay.

… amazing atmosphere with white curtains next to the sea, and, OK, it didn’t work out, but
that’s not important …

… We weren’t touching but I could FEEL him, it’s like a psychic connection, you know what I
mean.…

… happiest I’ve ever been …

They haven’t shagged, yet she’s the happiest she’s ever been. Well, if I
was trying to drive them apart, I’ve squarely failed. I’ve driven them
together instead. Good work, Fliss. Marvelous.

“Everything OK?” says Lorcan, observing my expression.
“Everything’s dandy,” I almost snarl back, and flip viciously through the
leather-bound cocktail menu.
My spirits have not exactly been high since the touchdown in Sofia. Now
they’re plummeting to rock bottom. Everything has backfired and I’m bone
weary and my minibar was lacking tonic water and now I’m surrounded by
Bulgarian prostitutes.
OK, they may not all be Bulgarian prostitutes, I allow, as I do another
sweep of the hotel rooftop bar. Some may be Bulgarian glamour models.
Some may even be business types. The light in here is dim, but it’s glinting
off all the diamonds and teeth and Louis Vuitton buckles on show. Hardly
the most understated place, the City Heights. Although, to their credit, they
knew my name and I didn’t even need to ask for an upgrade. I’m in the
most bling suite I’ve stayed in for a while, complete with two massive

bedrooms, a sitting room with cinema screen, and a vast mirrored art-deco-
style bathroom. I may be compelled to show it off to Lorcan later on.

I feel an anticipatory squeeze inside. Not quite sure where things are with
Lorcan and me. Maybe after a few drinks I’ll find out.

This bar is fairly bling too, with glass floor-to-ceiling windows and a
narrow wraparound swimming pool tiled in black, which all the beautiful
people/glamour models/business types are regarding with disdain. Unlike
Noah, who is hopping up and down, demanding to be allowed in.

“Your swimsuit is all packed away,” I say for the fifth time.
“Let him swim in his underpants,” says Lorcan. “Why not?”
“Yes!” crows Noah, enchanted by this idea. “Underpants! Underpants!”
He’s jumping up and down, totally hyper after the flight. Maybe a swim is a
good idea after all.
“OK.” I relent. “You can go in in your underpants. But quietly. Don’t
splash anyone.”
Eagerly, Noah starts to strip off, discarding his clothes with abandon.
“Look after my wallet, please,” he says with grown-up precision, and
hands me the airline wallet he was given on the flight. “I want some credit
cards to go in it,” he adds.
“You’re not quite old enough for credit cards,” I say, folding up his
trousers and putting them neatly on a velvet-upholstered banquette.
“Here’s one,” says Lorcan, and hands him a Starbucks card. “Expired,”
he adds to me.
“Cool!” says Noah in delight, and carefully slots it into his wallet. “I
want it to be full like Daddy’s.”
I’m about to make a barbed comment about Daddy’s bulging wallet—but
rein myself back just in time. That would be bitter. And I’m not doing bitter.
I’m doing sweetness and light.
“Daddy works hard for his money,” I say in sugary tones. “We should be
proud of him, Noah.”
“Geronimo!” Noah is running up to the pool. A moment later he lands in
a bomb with the most almighty splash. Water showers onto a nearby blonde
in a minidress, who recoils in horror and brushes the drops off her legs.
“So sorry,” I call over cheerfully. “Occupational hazard of drinking next
to a swimming pool!”
Noah has begun his extremely splashy version of the front crawl and is
drawing looks of consternation from beautiful people and beautiful

waitstaff alike.
“What’s the betting that Noah is the first person ever to swim in this

pool?” says Lorcan in amusement.
As we’re watching, Richard enters the bar, along with a group of

travelers I recognize from the plane. He looks wearier than he did earlier
on, and I feel a twinge of sympathy for him.

“Hi,” he greets us, and sinks onto the banquette. “Heard from Lottie
again?”

“Yes, and the good news is they still haven’t got it together!” I say, to
cheer him up.

“Still?” Lorcan sets down his glass with an incredulous crash. “What is
wrong with them?”

“Allergic mishap.” I shrug carelessly. “They used peanut oil or something
on Lottie and she swelled up.”

“Peanut oil?” Richard looks up suddenly, concerned. “Well, is she OK?
Did they call a doctor?”

“I think she’s fine. Really.”
“Because those reactions can be dangerous. Why did they use peanut oil,
for God’s sake? Didn’t she warn them?”
“I … don’t know,” I say evasively. “What’s that?” I add, to change the
subject, and nod at the piece of paper Richard is holding.
“It’s nothing,” says Richard protectively, as Noah bounds up, wrapped in
a chic black towel. “Nothing much.”
“It must be something.”
“Well … OK.” Richard looks fiercely from Lorcan to me, as though
daring us to laugh. “I’ve started a poem in French. For Lottie.”
“Good for you!” I say encouragingly. “Can I have a look?”
“It’s a work in progress.” Grudgingly, he hands over the paper and I
shake it out, clearing my throat.
“Je t’aime, Lottie. Plus qu’un zloty.” I hesitate, not sure what to say.
“Well, it’s a start.…”
“ ‘I love you, Lottie, More than a zloty’?” Lorcan translates
incredulously. “Seriously?”
“Lottie’s a difficult rhyme!” Richard says defensively. “You try!”
“You could have used ‘potty,’ ” suggests Noah. “ ‘I love you, Lottie,
Sitting on the potty.’ ”
“Thanks, Noah,” says Richard grouchily. “Appreciate it.”

“It’s very good,” I say hastily. “Anyway, it’s the thought that counts.”
Richard grabs the paper back from me and reaches for the bar menu. On
the front it reads Delectable Bulgarian Specialties, and inside are lists of
bar snacks and light meals.
“That’s a good idea. Have something to eat,” I say soothingly. “You’ll
feel better.”
Richard gives the menu a cursory glance, then flags down a waitress,
who approaches with a smile.
“Sir? Can I help?”
“I have some questions about your ‘delectable Bulgarian specialties,’ ”
he says with an uncompromising stare. “The tricolore salad. Is that a
Bulgarian specialty?”
“Sir.” The girl’s smile widens. “I will check.”
“And the chicken korma. Is that a Bulgarian specialty?”
“Sir, I will check.” The girl is scribbling on her notepad.
“Richard.” I kick him. “Stop it.”
“Club sandwich.” Richard presses on. “Is that a Bulgarian specialty?”
“Sir—”
“Curly fries. Which area of Bulgaria do they come from?”
The girl has stopped writing now and is gazing at him, perplexed.
“Stop!” I hiss at Richard, then smile up at the girl. “Thanks so much.
We’ll need a couple more minutes.”
“I was just asking,” says Richard, as she walks away. “Clarifying. I’m
allowed to clarify, aren’t I?”
“Just because you can’t write French love poetry, there’s no need to take
it out on an innocent waitress,” I say sternly. “Anyway, look. Meze platter.
That’s a Bulgarian specialty.”
“It’s Greek.”
“And Bulgarian.”
“Like you know all about it.” He looks at the menu broodingly, then
closes it. “Actually, I think I’ll turn in.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I’ll get room service. See you in the morning.”
“Sleep well!” I call after him, and he gives me a gloomy nod over his
shoulder.
“Poor guy,” says Lorcan, after Richard has disappeared from view. “He
really loves her.”

“I think so.”
“No one writes a poem like that unless they’re so in love that their
faculties have become temporarily defective.”
“More than a zloty,” I quote, suddenly getting the giggles. “Zloty?”
“ ‘Sitting on the potty’ was better.” Lorcan raises his eyebrows. “Noah,
you may have a future as Poet Laureate.”
Noah bounds off to leap back into the swimming pool, and we both
watch him splashing around for a moment.
“Nice kid,” says Lorcan. “Bright. Well balanced.”
“Thanks.” I can’t help smiling at the compliment. Noah is bright.
Although “well balanced” I’m not so sure about. Do well-balanced kids
boast about their fictitious heart transplants?
“He seems very happy.” Lorcan takes a handful of peanuts. “Was custody
amicable?”
At the word “custody,” my internal radar springs into action and I feel
my heart automatically start to pound, ready for battle. My body is flooding
with adrenaline. I’m fingering my memory stick nervously. I have speeches
lined up in my head. Long, erudite, scathing speeches. Also: I want to
punch someone.
“Only, some of my friends have had fairly torrid times with custody
battles,” Lorcan adds.
“Right.” I’m trying to achieve composure. “Right. I bet.”
Torrid? I want to exclaim. You want to hear about torrid?
But at the same time Barnaby’s voice is ringing in my ears like the chime
of a warning bell. You said whatever you did, you wouldn’t end up bitter.
“But you haven’t suffered?” says Lorcan.
“Not at all.” From nowhere, I’ve mustered the most relaxed, serene
smile. “Actually, it’s all been very easy and straightforward. And quick,” I
add for good measure. “Very quick.”
“You’re lucky.”
“Very lucky.” I nod. “So, so lucky!”
“And you and your ex get on?”
“We’re like this.” I cross my fingers.
“You’re incredible!” says Lorcan in marveling tones. “Are you sure you
want to be divorced from him?”
“I’m just super-glad he’s found happiness with another woman.” I smile
yet more sweetly. My ability to lie is unnerving even to myself. Essentially,

I’m saying the diametric opposite of the truth. It’s almost a game.
“And do you get on with his new partner?”
“Love her!”
“And does Noah?”
“It’s like one big happy family!”
“Would you like another drink?”
“No, I’d hate one!” Abruptly I remember that Lorcan doesn’t know we’re

playing the game. “I mean, love one,” I amend.
As Lorcan summons a waiter, I eat a couple of nuts and try to come up

with more divorce-related lies. But even as I’m composing them—We all
play table tennis together! Daniel’s naming his new baby after me!—my
head is buzzing. My fingers are fiddling at the memory stick with more and
more agitation. I don’t like this game anymore. My inner good fairy is
losing her glow. The bad fairy is barging in and wants to have a say.

“So, your husband must be a great guy,” says Lorcan, after he’s given our
order. “For you two to have such a special relationship.”

“He’s a star!” I nod, my teeth gritted.
“Must be.”
“He’s just so thoughtful and kind!” I’m clenching my fists by my sides.
“He’s such a charismatic, charming, unselfish, caring—” I break off. I’m
panting. There are actual stars in front of my eyes. Complimenting Daniel is
bad for my health; I can’t do it anymore. “He’s a … a … a …” It’s like a
sneeze. It has to come out. “Bastard.”
There’s a slight pause. I can see some men at a nearby table looking over
with interest.
“A bastard in a good way?” hazards Lorcan. “Or … oh.” He sees my
face.
“I lied. Daniel is the biggest nightmare that any divorced wife has had to
put up with, and I’m bitter, OK? I’m bitter!” Just saying it is a relief. “My
bones are bitter, my heart’s bitter, my blood is bitter.…” Something occurs
to me. “Wait. You’ve had sex with me. You know I’m bitter.”
There’s no way he couldn’t have picked that up from our night together. I
was fairly tense. I think I swore a lot.
“I wondered.” Lorcan tilts his head affirmatively.
“Was it when I shouted, ‘Screw you, Daniel!’ just as I came?” I can’t
help cracking, then lift a hand. “Sorry. Bad-taste joke.”

“No apology needed.” Lorcan doesn’t even blink. “The only way to
survive a divorce is to tell bad-taste jokes. What do you do if you miss your
ex-wife? Take better aim next time.”

“Why is divorce so expensive?” I automatically counter. “Because it’s
worth it.”

“Why do divorced men get married again? Bad memory.”
He waits for me to laugh, but I’m lost in thought. My adrenaline tidal
wave has ebbed away, leaving behind the detritus of old familiar thoughts.
“The thing is …” I rub my nose hard. “The thing is, I haven’t survived
my divorce. Wouldn’t ‘survival’ imply I’m the same person I was before?”
“So who are you now?” says Lorcan.
“I don’t know,” I say after a long pause. “I feel scalded inside. Like,
third-degree burns. But no one can see them.”
Lorcan winces but doesn’t reply. He’s one of those rare people who can
wait it out and listen.
“I started to wonder if I was going mad,” I say, staring into my glass.
“Could Daniel really see the world that way? Could he really be saying
those awful things and could people be believing him? And the worst thing
is, no one else is in it with you. A divorce is like a controlled explosion.
Everyone on the outside is OK.”
“Everyone on the outside.” Lorcan nods vigorously. “Don’t you hate
those people? Telling you not to think about it.”
“Yes!” I nod in recognition. “And saying, ‘Be positive! At least you
haven’t been horribly disfigured in an industrial accident!’ ”
Lorcan bursts into laughter. “You know the same people I know.”
“I just wish beyond anything that he was out of my life.” I exhale, resting
my forehead briefly in my hands. “I wish they could do … I don’t know.
Keyhole surgery for ex-husband removal.” Lorcan gives an appreciative
smile and I gulp my wine. “What about you?”
“It was fairly grim.” He nods. “There was some nastiness about money,
but we didn’t have kids, so that made it simpler.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t have kids.”
“Not really,” he replies tonelessly.
“No, really, you are,” I persist. “I mean, when you get into custody, it’s a
whole other—”
“No, really, I’m not.” There’s an acerbic edge to his voice I haven’t heard
before, and I suddenly remember I know very little of his private life. “We

couldn’t,” he adds shortly. “I couldn’t. And I would say that that fact
contributed about eighty percent to our breakup. Make that a hundred
percent.” He takes a deep gulp of whiskey.

I’m so shocked I don’t know what to say. In those few words, he’s
conveyed a background story of such sadness that I feel instantly guilty for
having complained about my own plight. Because at least I have Noah.

“I’m sorry,” I falter at last.
“Yes. Me too.” He gives me a wry, kind smile, and I realize that he can
tell I’m feeling guilty. “Although, as you say, it would have complicated
things more.”
“I didn’t mean—” I begin. “I didn’t realize—”
“It’s fine.” He lifts a hand. “It’s fine.”
I recognize his tone; I use it myself. It isn’t fine: it just is.
“I really am sorry.” I repeat myself feebly.
“I know.” He nods. “Thanks.”
For a while we’re silent. Thoughts are spinning around my head, but I
don’t quite dare to share any of them with him. I don’t know him well
enough. They might inadvertently hurt him.
At last I retreat to the safe, once-removed territory of Lottie and Ben.
“The thing is …” I exhale. “I just want to save my sister from the same
kind of hurt that we’ve both experienced. That’s all. That’s why I’m here.”
“Can I make a small point?” says Lorcan. His mouth twitches with
humor, and I can tell he wants to lighten the mood. “You haven’t even met
Ben.”
“I don’t need to,” I retort. “What you don’t realize is there’s a history to
this. Every time Lottie breaks up with someone, she makes some stupid,
rash, insane gesture that she then has to undo. I call them her Unfortunate
Choices.”
“ ‘Unfortunate Choices.’ I like it.” Lorcan raises an eyebrow. “So you
think Ben is her Unfortunate Choice.”
“Well, don’t you? I mean, really. Getting hitched after five minutes,
planning to live in a gîte—”
“A gîte?” Lorcan looks surprised. “Who said that?”
“Lottie! She’s full of it. They’re going to have goats and chickens and we
all have to visit them and eat baguettes.”
“This doesn’t sound like Ben at all,” says Lorcan. “Chickens? Are you
sure?”

“Precisely! It sounds like some ridiculous pipe dream. And it’ll crumble
to bits and she’ll end up divorced and bitter and just like me—” Too late, I
realize I’m almost shouting. The men at the next table are looking at me
again. “Just like me,” I repeat more quietly. “And that would be a disaster.”

“You do yourself a disservice,” says Lorcan. I think he’s trying to be
nice. But I’m really not in the mood for flattery.

“You know what I mean.” I lean forward. “Would you wish the sheer hell
of divorce on someone you cared about? Or would you try to prevent it?”

“So you’re going to arrive out of the blue, tell her to get an annulment
and marry Richard. You think she’ll listen?”

I shake my head. “It’s not like that. I happen to think Richard’s great and
perfect for Lottie, but I’m not going out there under the banner of Team
Richard. Richard will have to be his own team. I’m on Team Don’t Mess
Your Life Up.”

“Providential for you that they’ve had such a nightmare of a
honeymoon,” says Lorcan, raising an eyebrow.

There’s a brief, charged pause in which I wonder whether to tell him
about my secret operation—then decide against it.

“Yes,” I say as nonchalantly as I can. “Lucky.”
Noah comes pattering up again, his feet leaving wet marks in the deep-
gray carpet. He snuggles onto my knee and at once I feel myself lighten.
Noah carries hope round with him like an aura, and whenever I touch him a
little bit of it filters into me.
“Here!” Suddenly he’s waving at someone. “This table!”
“Here we are.” A waitress appears, bearing a silver tray on which is an
ice-cream sundae. “For the brave little soldier. You must be so proud,” she
adds to me.
Oh God. Not again. I smile back, my expression carefully vague, trying
to hide my embarrassment. I have no idea where we’re heading with this. It
could be heart transplant. It could be bone marrow. It could be new puppy.
“Training for three hours a day!” She squeezes Noah’s shoulder. “I
admire your dedication! Your son was telling me about his gymnastics,” she
adds to me. “Thinking of the Olympics 2024, are you?”
My smile freezes. His gymnastics? OK, I can’t put this off any longer.
I’m having the Talk, right here, right now.
“Thank you,” I manage. “Wonderful. Thank you so much.” As soon as
the waitress has disappeared, I turn to Noah. “Darling. Listen to me. This is

important. You know the difference between truth and lies, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Noah nods confidently.
“And you know that we mustn’t tell lies.”
“Except to be polite,” chimes in Noah. “Like, ‘I do like your dress!’ ”
This comes from another Big Talk we had, about two months ago, after

Noah was disastrously honest about his godmother’s cooking.
“Yes. But generally speaking—”
“And ‘What delicious apple pie!’ ” Noah warms to his theme. “And ‘I’d

love some more, but I’m just too full!’ ”
“Yes! OK. But the point is, most of the time we have to be truthful. And

not—for example—say that we’ve had a heart transplant when we haven’t.”
I’m watching Noah closely for a reaction, but he seems unmoved. “Darling,
you haven’t had a heart transplant, have you?” I say gently.

“No,” he agrees.
“But you told the airline staff that you’d had one. Why?”
Noah thinks for a bit. “Because it’s interesting.”
“Right. Well. Let’s be interesting and truthful, OK? From now on, I want
you to tell the truth.”
“OK.” Noah shrugs as though it’s neither here nor there. “Can I start my
sundae now?” He picks up his spoon and digs in, sending chocolate flakes
everywhere.
“Nicely done,” says Lorcan quietly.
“I don’t know.” I sigh. “I just don’t get it. Why does he say this stuff?”
“Big imagination.” Lorcan shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry. You’re a good
mother,” he adds, so matter-of-factly that I wonder if I misheard.
“Oh.” I don’t quite know how to react. “Thanks.”
“And you’re like a mother to Lottie too, I’m guessing?” He’s pretty
perceptive, this Lorcan.
I nod. “Our own mother didn’t do a great job. I’ve always had to watch
out for her.”
“Makes sense.”
“Do you get it?” I look up, suddenly wanting to hear his true opinion.
“Do you understand what I’m doing?”
“Which bit?”
“All of it.” I spread my arms wide. “This. Trying to save my sister from
the biggest mistake of her life. Am I right, or am I insane?”

Lorcan is silent for a while. “I think you’re very loyal and very protective
and I respect you for that. And, yes, you’re insane.”

“Shut up.” I shove him.
“You asked.” He shoves me back and I feel a tiny electric dart, coupled
with a flashback to our night together. It’s so graphic that I gasp. Looking at
the way Lorcan’s mouth is tightening, I think he’s remembering exactly the
same bit.
My skin has started to prickle in a mixture of memory and anticipation.
Here we are: the two of us, in a hotel. No-brainer. The thing about great sex
is, it’s a gift from God which should be enjoyed to the max. That’s my
theory, anyway.
“So, do you have a big suite?” Lorcan asks, as though reading my mind.
“Two bedrooms,” I reply carelessly. “One for me, one for Noah.”
“Ah.”
“Lots of space.”
“Ah.” His eyes are locked onto mine with a promise of more, and I feel
an involuntary shiver. Not that we can run upstairs and rip our clothes off
straightaway. There is the small matter of my seven-year-old son sitting
next to me.
“Shall we … eat?” I suggest.
“Yes!” Noah, finishing his ice-cream sundae, tunes in to the conversation
with precision accuracy. “I want a burger and chips!”

An hour later, between the three of us, we’ve eaten one club sandwich, one
burger, one bowl of normal fries, one bowl of sweet-potato fries, one platter
of shrimp tempura, three chocolate brownies, and a basketful of bread.
Beside me, Noah is half asleep on the banquette seat. He’s had a riotous
time, darting around the bar, making friends with all the Bulgarian
prostitutes, scoring Cokes and packets of crisps and even some Bulgarian
money, which, to his dismay, I made him give straight back.

Now a six-piece band is playing and everyone is listening, and the lights
are even dimmer than before, and I’m feeling fairly blissful. I’ve mellowed
after my three glasses of wine. Lorcan’s hand keeps brushing against mine.
We have an entire empty, delicious night ahead of us. I reach over to take
the last sweet-potato chip from the bowl and glimpse Noah’s precious

airline wallet on the seat next to him. It’s stuffed with what look like credit
cards. Where on earth did he get those?

“Noah?” I nudge him awake. “Sweetheart, what have you got in your
wallet?”

“Credit cards,” he says sleepily. “I found them.”
“You found credit cards?” My blood freezes. Oh God. Has he stolen
someone’s credit cards? I grab the wallet and pull out the cards in
consternation. But they’re not credit cards after all. They’re—
“Room keys!” says Lorcan, as I pull out about seven at once. The entire
wallet is stuffed with electronic room keys. He must have about twenty of
them.
“Noah!” I shake him awake again. “Darling, where did you get these
from?”
“I told you, I found them,” he says resentfully. “People put them down on
tables and things. I wanted some credit cards for my wallet.…” His eyes are
already closing again.
I look up at Lorcan, my hands full of room keys splayed out like playing
cards.
“What do I do? I’ll have to give them back.”
“They all look the same,” observes Lorcan, and gives a snort of laughter.
“Good luck with that.”
“Don’t laugh! It’s not funny! There’ll be a riot when everyone finds out
they’re locked out of their rooms.…” I look again at the electronic cards
and suddenly snuffle with laughter myself.
“Just put them back,” says Lorcan decisively.
“But where?” I look around the tables of smartly dressed beautiful
people, all enjoying the band, oblivious to my agitation. “I don’t know
whose key is whose, and I can’t find out without going to the front desk.”
“Here’s the plan,” says Lorcan decisively. “We’ll scatter them around the
room like Easter eggs. Everyone’s watching the band. No one’ll notice.”
“But how will we know whose key is whose? They’re identical!”
“We’ll guess. We’ll use our psychic powers. I’ll take half,” he adds, and
starts grabbing key cards out of the wallet.
Slowly, cautiously, we get to our feet. The lights are dim and the band is
playing a Coldplay song, and no one turns a hair. Lorcan walks
authoritatively toward the bar, leans slightly to his left, and deposits a key
card on a bar table.

“Sorry,” I hear him say charmingly. “Lost my balance.”
Following his lead, I approach another group, pretend to look at a light
fitting, and drop three cards down onto the mirrored surface of the table.
The sound of them landing is covered by the band, and no one even notices.
Lorcan is planting cards on the main long bar, moving along quickly,
deftly reaching between bar stools and behind backs.
“You dropped this, I think?” he says, as a girl turns a questioning face to
him.
“Oh, thank you!” She takes the card from him, and my insides curdle. I
am half appalled and half delighted at what feels like the most massive
prank. There’s no way that’s the key to her room. There are going to be
some very angry guests later on.…
Now Lorcan is up near the stage, leaning right over a blond lady and
blatantly flipping a key card onto her table. He meets my eye and winks at
me, and I want to laugh. I get rid of my remaining cards as quickly as I can
and hurry back to Noah, who is now fully asleep. I summon a waiter and
quickly scribble a signature on our bill, then hoist Noah into my arms and
wait for Lorcan to join us.
“If I’m found out, my name will be mud,” I murmur.
“In Bulgaria,” points out Lorcan. “Population 7.5 million. That’s like
your name being mud in Bogotá.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want my name to be mud in Bogotá either.”
“Why not? Maybe it is already. Have you been to Bogotá?”
“Yes, as it happens,” I inform him. “And I can tell you, my name is not
mud there.”
“Maybe they were being polite.”
This conversation is so ridiculous, I can’t help smiling.
“Come on, then. Let’s escape before we get attacked by angry key
holders.”
As we walk out of the bar, Lorcan holds out his arms.
“I’ll carry Noah if you like. He looks heavy.”
“Don’t worry.” I smile automatically. “I’m used to it.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s not heavy.”
“Well … OK.”
It feels odd, handing over Noah to Lorcan. But the truth is, I do have a
dodgy shoulder and it is a bit of a relief. We reach our suite and Lorcan
carries Noah straight to his bed. He’s so sound asleep, he doesn’t stir. I

remove his shoes but nothing else. He can clean his teeth and put his
pajamas on tomorrow night, if he wants to.

I turn off Noah’s light and head to the door, and for a moment Lorcan and
I stand there together, for all the world like two parents.

“So,” says Lorcan at last, and a luscious anticipation starts to grow within
me again. I can feel an internal limbering-up, that little dance of muscles
yearning to be used. I’m doing better than Lottie on the shag front flashes
through my mind, giving me a pinch of guilt—but only a small one. It’s all
for the best. She can have another honeymoon, another time.

“Drink?” I say, not because I really want one but to prolong the moment.
This suite is the perfect setting for a shag-fest, what with all the smoky,
sexy mirrors and soft, sensual rugs and the (fake) open fire flickering in the
grate. There are also several conveniently placed pieces of furniture, which
I’ve already eyed up.

When I’ve poured Lorcan a whiskey, I sit down with my own glass of
wine on an amazing creation of a chair. It’s made of deep-purple velvet,
with wide rolltop arms and a deep seat and an erotic swoop to its back. I’m
hoping that I strike quite a figure as I lean provocatively on one of the arms
and allow my dress to ruck up. There’s a delectable, urgent pulsing deep
inside me. But, still, I’m not going to hurry anything. We can talk first. (Or
just stare at each other with desperate want. Also good.)

“I wonder what Ben and Lottie are up to.” Lorcan breaks the silence.
“Presumably not …” He shrugs significantly.

“No.”
“Poor guys. Whatever you think, it’s the worst luck for them.”
“I guess,” I say noncommittally, and sip my wine.
“I mean, no sex on your honeymoon.”
“Terrible.” I nod. “Poor them.”
“And they’d waited, hadn’t they?” His face crinkles in remembrance.
“Jesus. You’d think they’d shag in the loos and just have done with it.”
“They tried, but they got caught.”
“No way.” He looks at me, startled. “You serious?”
“At Heathrow. In the business-class lounge.”
Lorcan throws back his head and roars with laughter. “I’m going to rib
Ben about that. So your sister fills you in on everything, does she? Even her
sex life?”
“We’re pretty close.”

“Poor girl. Foiled even in the Heathrow loos. It’s the worst luck.”
I don’t answer at once. The wine I’m drinking is stronger than the stuff I
drank downstairs and it’s going to my head. It’s tipping me over the edge.
My head is a bit of a maelstrom. Lorcan keeps talking about “bad luck,” but
he’s wrong. Luck has nothing to do with it. Ben and Lottie have not
consummated their marriage because of me. Because of my power. And
suddenly I feel the urge to share this with him.
“Not so much luck …” I let the word trail in the air and, sure enough,
Lorcan picks up on it at once.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not chance that Ben and Lottie haven’t done it yet. It’s design. My
design. I’ve been in charge of the whole thing.” I lean back proudly, feeling
like the queen of remote-control honeymoon-fixing, all-powerful in my
empress’s chair.
“What?” Lorcan looks so taken aback, I feel another twinge of pride.
“I have an agent helping me on the ground,” I clarify. “I issue commands,
he carries them out.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Agent?”
“A member of staff at the hotel. He’s been making sure that Ben and
Lottie don’t get it together till I get there. We’ve been acting as a team. And
it’s worked! They haven’t.”
“But how— What—” He rubs his head, baffled. “I mean, how do you
stop a couple from having sex?”
God, he’s slow.
“Easy. Mess with their beds, spike their drinks, stalk them everywhere
they go … Then there was the peanut-oil massage—”
“That was you?” He looks thunderstruck.
“It was all me! I orchestrated everything!” I produce my phone and wave
it at him. “It’s all in here. All the texts. All the instructions. I managed it
all.”
There’s a long silence. I’m waiting for him to say how brilliant I am, but
he looks stunned.
“You sabotaged your own sister’s honeymoon?” There’s something about
his expression which makes me feel a little uneasy. Also the word
“sabotaged.”
“It was the only way! What else was I supposed to do?” Something about
this conversation is going wrong. I don’t like his expression, or mine. I

know I appear defensive, which is not a good look. “You do understand I
had to put a stop to it? Once they’ve consummated it, it’ll be too late for an
annulment. So I had to do something. And this was the only way—”

“Are you nuts, woman? Are you out of your mind?” Lorcan’s tone is so
forceful, I recoil in shock. “Of course it wasn’t the only way!”

“Well, it was the best way.” I jut my chin out.
“It was not the best way. By no stretch of the imagination was it the best
way. What if she finds out?”
“She won’t.”
“She might.”
“Well …” I swallow. “So what? I had her interests at heart—”
“By having her massaged with peanut oil? What if she’d had an extreme
reaction and died?”
“Shut up,” I say uncomfortably. “She didn’t.”
“But you’re happy for her to spend a night in pain.”
“She’s not in pain!”
“How do you know? Jesus.” He rests his head in his hands a moment,
then looks up. “Again, what if she finds out? You’re prepared to lose your
relationship with her? Because that’s what’ll happen.”
There’s silence in the hotel suite, although words still seem to be
bouncing off the smoky mirrors, sharp, accusing words. The erotic
atmosphere has disintegrated. I can’t find the phrases to rebut Lorcan.
They’re in my brain somewhere, but I’m feeling slow and a little dazed. I
thought he would be impressed. I thought he’d understand. I thought—
“You talk about Unfortunate Choices?” says Lorcan suddenly. “Well,
what the hell is this?”
“What do you mean?” I glower at him. He’s not allowed to talk about
Unfortunate Choices. They’re my thing.
“You suffer a painful divorce, so you rush out and decide to save your
sister from the same fate by derailing her honeymoon. Sounds like a pretty
fucking Unfortunate Choice to me.”
I’m almost winded with shock. What? What?
“Shut up!” I manage in fury. “You don’t know anything about it. I
shouldn’t have told you.”
“It’s her life.” He stares back implacably. “Hers. And you’re making a
big mistake interfering with it. One you may live to regret.”
“Amen,” I say sarcastically. “Finished the sermon?”

Lorcan just shakes his head. He finishes his whiskey in a couple of gulps,
and I know that’s the end. He’s going. He walks over to the door, then
pauses. His back is tensed, I can tell. I think he feels as awkward as I do.

Uncomfortable thoughts are needling me. There’s a painful dragging at
the pit of my stomach. It feels a bit like guilt—not that I’d ever admit this to
him. But there is something I must say. Something I must make clear.

“Just in case you were wondering.” I wait till he turns his head. “I care
about Lottie a great deal. A great deal.” My voice gives a treacherous
wobble. “She’s not only my little sister, she’s my friend. And I’ve done all
this for her.”

Lorcan stares at me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I know
you think you’re acting for the right reasons,” he says at last. “I know
you’ve had a lot of pain in your life that you want to protect Lottie from.
But this is wrong. Deeply wrong. And you know it, Fliss. You do, really.”

His eyes have softened. He feels sorry for me, I suddenly realize. Sorry
for me. I can’t stand it.

“Well, good night,” I say shortly.
“Good night.” He matches my tone and leaves the room without a further
word.

19

LOTTIE

It was meant to be! This is my all-star, gold-plated, total dream scenario.
Ben and me on a boat again. Skimming across the Aegean waves. On our
way to total bliss.

Thank God we’ve left the Amba. I know it’s luxurious and has five stars,
but it’s not the real Ikonos. It’s not us. The moment we were dropped off for
the day at the little bustling port, I felt something buried inside me come
alive. This is what I remember of Ikonos. Old white houses with shutters,
and shaded streets, and elderly women in black sitting on corners, and the
dock for the ferry. The port was full of fishing boats and water taxis, and the
overpowering smell of fish made my senses reel. I remember that smell. I
remember all of it.

The sky is a bright morning blue and the sun is dazzling my eyelids, just
as it always did. I’m lying back in the water taxi, the way I did when I was
eighteen. My feet are in Ben’s lap and he’s idly fiddling with my toes and
there’s only one thing on both our minds.

My skin has recovered perfectly from its allergic reaction, and Ben was
keen on a quick shag this morning. But I talked him out of it. How could we
consummate our marriage in a boring old hotel bed when instead there’s the
chance to do it in the cove where we first did it, all those years ago? The
romance of it makes me want to hug myself. Here we are after all these
years! Going back to the guest house! Married! I wonder if Arthur will be
there. I wonder if he’ll recognize us. I don’t think I look that different. I’m
even wearing the same tiny tie-dye shorts I wore when I was eighteen …
and praying desperately they don’t split.

Spray splashes my face as we bump across the waves, and I lick the
delicious saltiness off my lips. I’m surveying the coastline as we pass and
remembering all the little villages we explored back then, with their narrow
cobbled alleyways and unexpected treasures, like that half-ruined marble
statue of a horse we once came across in the middle of a deserted square. I
look up to share this thought with Ben, but he’s engrossed in his iPad. I can

hear rap coming from it and feel a flicker of irritation. Does he have to
listen to that now?

“Do you think Arthur’s still there?” I try to attract his attention. “And that
old cook?”

“Can’t be, surely.” Ben looks up briefly. “I wonder what happened to
Sarah.”

Sarah again. Do I even know this girl?
The music seems to be getting louder, and now Ben’s rapping along. He
really can’t rap. I mean, I’m being a dispassionate, loving wife here—and
he’s crap.
“It’s lovely and peaceful out here, isn’t it?” I say with a meaningful edge
to my voice, but he doesn’t take the hint. “Could we maybe not have the
music on for a bit?”
“It’s DJ Cram, babe,” says Ben, and turns the volume up. Fuck yo
brudder blares out across the beautiful sea, and I wince.
He’s a selfish git.
The thought lands in my brain with no warning and makes me panic
slightly. No. I didn’t really mean “selfish.” Or “git.” It’s all good. All
blissful.
I don’t mind rap music, anyway. And we can talk over the top of it.
“I can’t believe I’m going back to the place where it all changed,” I say,
beginning a new tack. “That fire was, like, the turning point for my life.”
“Will you stop going on about that bloody fire?” says Ben irritably, and I
stare back in hurt shock.
I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. Ben’s never been interested in the
fire. He’d gone sponge-diving on the other side of the island for a couple of
days when it happened, so he missed the whole thing and has always been
chippy about that. Still, he doesn’t have to be so snappy. He knows how
important it was to me.
“Hey!” he suddenly exclaims. He’s peering at his iPad and I can see he’s
just got a text. We’re fairly near the coast, so there must be some random
patch of signal.
“Who is it?”
Ben looks as though he’s bursting with pride and excitement. Has he won
something? “Heard of someone called Yuri Zhernakov? He only wants a
private meeting with me.”
“Yuri Zhernakov?” I gape at him. “How come?”

“He wants to buy the company.”
“Wow! And do you want to sell?”
“Why not?”
Already my mind is whirring. This would be amazing! Ben would get a
lump of cash, we could buy an old farmhouse in France.…
“Yuri wants to talk to me.” Ben seems totally puffed up. “He asked for
me personally. We’re going to meet on his super-yacht.”
“That’s amazing!” I squeeze his arm.
“I know. It is amazing. And Lorcan can—” Ben stops himself.
“Whatever,” he says moodily.
There’s some weird vibe going on which I don’t understand, but I don’t
care. We’re going to move to France! And we’re about to have sex, finally!
I’ve forgotten my earlier irritation. I’m back to super-bliss. As I happily
swig my Coke, I suddenly remember something I’ve been meaning to say to
Ben for days.
“Hey, last year I met these scientists at Nottingham who were researching
a new way to make paper. More eco. Something about a special filtering
process? Have you heard of them?”
“No.” Ben shrugs. “But Lorcan might have.”
“Well, you should link up with them. Do some funding or whatever.
Although I suppose if you’re selling the company …” I shrug too.
“Doesn’t matter. That’s a good idea.” Ben nudges me. “Do you have lots
of good ideas like that?”
“Millions.” I grin back.
“I’m going to tell Lorcan right now.” Ben starts typing at his iPad. “He’s
always going on about research and development. He thinks I’m not
interested. Well, bollocks to that.”
“Tell him about the Zhernakov meeting too,” I suggest. “Maybe he’ll
have some good advice.” Immediately, Ben’s fingers freeze and his face
closes up.
“Not a chance,” he says at last, and shoots me a warning look. “And
you’re not saying a word to anyone either. Not a word.”

20

FLISS

The morning after is always hell.
In Sofia, Bulgaria, after too many glasses of wine, an excruciating

argument, and a night of sexual frustration, the morning after achieves fresh
levels of hellishness.

From Lorcan’s expression, he feels the same way. Noah ran joyfully to
greet him as soon as we entered the dining room, which is why I’m sitting
with him, not through choice. He’s savagely buttering a piece of toast, and
I’m crumbling a croissant. From our desultory conversation we’ve
established that we both slept terribly, that the coffee is abysmal, that there
are 2.4 Bulgarian leva to the pound and that the flight to Ikonos today
hasn’t been delayed, as far as we can glean from the airline website.

Areas we haven’t touched on: Ben, Lottie, their marriage, their sexual
conduct, Bulgarian politics, the state of the world economy, my attempts to
sabotage my sister’s honeymoon and thus risk losing my relationship with
her forever. Among others.

The restaurant is adjacent to the bar we were in last night, and I can see a
pool attendant dabbing at the pristine water with a filtering net. I’ve no idea
why they bother. I expect Noah is the only person to have swum in that pool
all year. Although, to be fair, he might well have peed in it.

“Can I swim?” he says, as though reading my thoughts.
“No,” I say shortly. “We’re getting on the airplane soon.”
Lorcan has his BlackBerry to his ear again. He’s been speed-dialing all
through breakfast but never getting through. I think I can guess who he’s
been calling, and this is confirmed when he says, “Ben, at last,” and pushes
his chair back. I watch in slight resentment as he walks right away, to the
side of the pool, and perches in front of the sauna entrance. How am I
supposed to eavesdrop now?
I try to ignore my tension by slicing up an apple for Noah. When Lorcan
returns, I force myself not to grip his lapels and demand information.
Instead, I ask, with only moderate urgency:

“Well? Have they done it?”
Lorcan gives me a disbelieving look. “Is that all you’re interested in?”
“Yes,” I say defiantly.
“Well, they haven’t. They’ve just arrived at the guest house. I guess
they’re planning to do it there.”
The guest house? I stare at him in horror. I can’t get at them there.
There’s no Nico. It’s out of my power zone. Shit. Shit. I’m going to be just
too late—
“Your sister is quite something,” Lorcan continues with animation.
“She’s come up with a great idea for the company. We’re far too weak on
the research-and-development side, and I’ve known it for a while. But she’s
suggested we tie up with a research project in Nottingham she knows about.
It’s a tiny team, which is why I hadn’t heard of it, but it sounds as if it’s
directly relevant to us. We could get some joint funding going. It’s
brilliant.”
“Oh yes,” I say, still preoccupied. “She’d know about that. She works for
a pharmaceutical company. She meets scientists all the time.”
“What exactly does she do?”
“Recruitment.”
“Recruitment?” I look up to see that his eyes have lit up. “We need a new
head of HR! This is perfect!”
“What?”
“She could head up HR, keep the good ideas coming, get involved with
the estate.…” I can see his mind working hard. “This is just what Ben
needed! A wife who can be a business partner too. A helpmate. Someone to
stand at his side and—”
“Stop right there!” I plant a hand on the table. “You’re not poaching my
sister to go and play a game of Happy Families in Staffordshire.”
“Why not?” demands Lorcan. “What’s your problem with it?”
“My problem is it’s nonsense! It’s ridiculous!”
Lorcan stares at me silently for a moment, and I feel the briefest of
shivers under his gaze.
“You really take the biscuit,” he says at last. “How do you know you’re
not ruining your sister’s great love? How do you know this isn’t her chance
for a fantastically happy life?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” I shake my head impatiently. I’m not even going to
answer that question, it’s so stupid.

“I think Ben and Lottie have every chance of being happy,” he says
firmly. “And I, for one, am going to encourage them.”

“You can’t switch sides!” I glare at him in fury.
“I was never on your side,” retorts Lorcan. “Your side is the nutty side.”
“The nutty side.” Noah picks up on this and decides it’s hilarious. “The
nutty side!” He falls about in laughter. “Mummy’s on the nutty side!”
I glare at Lorcan, stirring my coffee viciously. Traitor.
“Morning, everyone.”
I look up to see Richard approaching the table. He looks about as cheery
as the rest of us, i.e., suicidal.
“Morning,” I say. “Did you sleep well?”
“Terribly.” He scowls and pours himself some coffee, then glances at my
phone. “So, have they done it yet?”
“For God’s sake!” I take out some of my resentment on him. “You’re
obsessed!”
“You can talk,” mutters Lorcan.
“Why do you keep asking if they’ve done it?” says Noah alertly.
“Well, aren’t you obsessed too?” counters Richard.
“No, I’m not obsessed. And, no, they haven’t done it.” I put him out of
his misery.
“Done what?” asks Noah.
“Put the sausage in the cupcake,” says Lorcan, draining his coffee.
“Lorcan!” I snap. “Don’t say things like that!”
Noah has exploded with laughter. “Put the sausage in the cupcake!” he
crows. “The sausage in the cupcake!”
Great. I glare at Lorcan, who stares back, unmoved. And, anyway,
cupcake? I’ve never heard it called that.
“I suppose you think it’s funny.” Richard turns his ire on Lorcan. “I
suppose this is all a joke to you.”
“Oh, give it a break, Sir Lancelot.” Lorcan loses his patience. “Isn’t it
time to butt out? You must want to give up by now. No woman is worth this
rigmarole.”
“Lottie would be worth ten times this ‘rigmarole,’ as you put it.” Richard
juts his chin at Lorcan. “And I’m not giving up when I’m only six hours
away from seeing her. I’ve worked it out exactly.” He takes a piece of toast
from the rack. “Six hours.”